Bobby?
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Dean notices some occurences around their new place. He knows what it is, but he really doesn't want to know. It hurts too much... Why does everyone leave poor Dean...? Contains season seven spoilers...


Based off of the new Supernatural episode "The Splice Girls." Y'know, the part where the papers were mysteriously moved. Just a little ficlet (or however much I happen write) about Dean and Bobby, now that the old man is dead. Damn, I never realized just how much they relied on him... Anyways, enjoy the fluffy emo-ness!

**Summary:** Dean notices some occurences around their new place. He knows what it is, but he really doesn't want to know. It hurts too much... Why does everyone leave poor Dean...?  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Hurt/Comfort/Family  
><strong>Rated:<strong> T. 'Tis not very bad, besides some language...  
><strong>Language:<strong> English, dammit.  
><strong>Length: <strong>Somewhere around 2,000 words-ish.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Spoilers from season seven of Supernatural. I own nothing. Wish I did, though... at least Misha... Oh, and don't get me wrong, I hated myself for writing Dean being _this_ emo (I agree with none of it, trust me and I'll get a happier fic in soon, I swear) and him having all this bad luck, but I kinda had to... my brain held me hostage. Again.

**Warning:** Oh wait... there is none. Besides the sweet emo-ness of it all...

* * *

><p>Dean awoke with a start. He sat up as fast as he could, causing him to wrench his neck and shoulder, not to mention his lower back. Looking around wildly, he tried to remember where he was.<p>

This was no crappy motel, nor the interior of the crap car they were forced to drive instead of the Impala because of the God forsaken fuzz. That's right, he said it, _fuzz_. He didn't give a rat's ass if he was old school about it - he was pissed and had a right to be. His head was pounding, he was confused as hell, he didn't know where he was, and he couldn't find Sam. Hell, he couldn't even _see_ anything, it was so damn dark. Then, suddenly it all came back.

After weeks and weeks of crap and hurt, Sam had decided, "For the good of us both" - even though Dean knew that what Sam actually meant was, "For the good of you, my crazy-ass brother who's losing his marbles and is gonna go suicidal if he doesn't straighten some shit out" - that they needed a break from hunting, which actually meant Dean was confined to the house, by himself to think while Sam went out and did God-knows-what because his little brother could barely be around him anymore.

And that was even _worse_ for Dean than being overloaded with hunts, because he was left alone to think about how , first, it was Cas, who became a douche and tried to kill them all, then died while trying to make it all right; then Bobby, who died of a bullet in the brain while helping him and Sam, and how God awfully **guilty** Dean felt about it, and how much that _hurt_ on top of losing his best friend; and finally, how his _own brother_ could barely look at him, because Dean was a hypocritical, broken down _mess_, and his whole existence was just **pitiful**.

Oh yeah, this break was serving him _just fine_.

Dean grumbled, a little _more_ than begrudgingly, as he got up about how much he hated this, how much he hated himself, and how he wished things could go back to the way things were.

He stumbled on the way to the window, stubbing his pinky toe in the process, making him expell a long slew of colorful phrases, and ripped open the heavy curtains. The resulting sunlight made him see spots. Looking away, Dean eyed (with trouble) the digital clock. It was well after noon.

"God damn it all..." he swore. Dean hated sleeping in. Now, don't get him wrong, he loved sleeping, just not so _late_. It made him feel even more shitty about himself, that he could sleep the day away and do **nothing**.

He hurriedly grabbed a pair of jeans (he had been sleeping in just his boxers lately) and pulled them on one leg at a time, almost falling as he did so. _God, he couldn't remember having a worse start to a morning._

Dean rubbed his face forcefully and shook his head. Coffee, that's what he needed. And he _would_ have it Irish, _thank you very much_, he would think to the inner monologue that had took up residence in his head since Sam had left him alone nearly all hours of the day.

_...Maybe I am losing my marbles..._

* * *

><p>Before he finally managed to pour himself a cup of coffee that was over half bourbon, Dean had fallen down the last eight steps leading downstairs, leaving a remarkable purple blotch on his leg and shoulder (and more than likely his back as well); spilled the water to put in the pot; almost broke the coffee pot in the process (he actually managed to catch it an inch from hitting the ground); he dropped his initial mug, making it shatter all over the kitchen floor; on the way to get the broom, he accidently stepped on said shattered mug pieces; and, to top it off, he burned the coffee and now the whole house had a stench akin to sulfur.<p>

Oh, he was just _peachy_.

A quarter way through his third cup of coffee that was becoming less and less coffee, and more and more bourbon, he thought he heard something brush past his ear.

_'Moderation is key,_

_'Ya idjit'_

Dean stopped, mouth half-full, and almost choked. He sat there for at least five minutes, wondering, playing back that moment in his head over and over. He was positive he heard something, but was it _really_...?

_**No.** Think of what Sam would say. 'It's just the wind, or your imagination. You were bad enought after Cas died, now Bobby made it worse. Plus, we burned him Dean! He's not coming back!'_

And Sam was probably right, dammit, Dean had to keep telling himself Sam was right. It was all in his head, Bobby was gone and wasn't coming back. He had to believe that, or else he would lose his mind to the hopeful fantasies that would slowly turn into reality, making him crazy and delusional. Dean wouldn't have that, he refused to be crazy. But, then there were the papers when they were hunting those Amazonian chicks. Dean hadn't touched them, and there was no breeze, he didn't care how Sam wanted to rationalize that! But what then...?

He rubbed the hankercheif he had tied around his bleeding foot. He had managed to dig all of the pieces of mug out of his flesh, but it was still bleeding, his heartbeat throbbing in the cuts as the crimson liquid oozed out, leaving small drops on the white tile floor. He might actually have to stitch it. Which he was not looking forward to.

_'Oh, boo hoo'_

Dean bit his lip so hard it bled. _Damn it all._

* * *

><p>"Well, that's as good as it gets,"Dean mumbled to himself as he attempted to look at his handiwork. His foot throbbed and stung even more now, and he couldn't walk on it, but at least it wasn't bleeding so much. <em>Now<em> he was thirsty.

As he reached out to grab his mug, however, it flew off the coffee table and onto the floor. Dean stared at it - he had never come close to touching it - and rolled over on the couch. He shivered slightly and fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

><p>"<em>Dean<em>," he heard Bobby say, he could even feel the old man's calloused hands on his shoulder, trying to shake him awake.

"**Dean**!" Bobby yelled urgently, shaking him so hard his neck cracked.

Dean cautiously opened his eyes and rolled over. He saw a much bigger hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the concerned face of his brother, Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asked, perturbed, but not really committed to the emotion.

Dean sighed, rubbing one side of his face. "Yeah. Peachy."

His brother nodded. "Well, I had to clean up after your mess in the kitchen. There was a good amount of blood. Just wanted to make sure you didn't bleed out, or anything."

The older Winchester sighed. "Yeah, I'm okay..."

_'Yeah, 'course you are'_

"_Shut up_," he grumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing Sam." He paused. "I'm going to bed."

* * *

><p>For the next week or so, Dean experienced even more occurences, all of which he wrote off as his imagination, like Sam told him to in the beginning. He never bothered to tell Sam about any of them. His brother had been on edge as of late.<p>

But Dean couldn't just completely throw aside things like pulling his covers up at night; messing with his alarm (like setting it to all hours of the night so he never slept a minute over four hours, as was his usual); hearing strange voices (actually, just one voice, like a faint whisper, barely there); finding the alcohol in completely different places; or, if he really needed to find something, it would suddenly appear at the top of the mess Dean made initially looking for said thing. None of these things Dean did himself, and they were really starting to get to him. Everytime, his heart and mind screamed '_Bobby_,' but Bobby was gone, it was just the fact that Dean missed him that the Winchester even thought so.

Then, there was one day when Dean was looking through Bobby's old photos. There wasn't much there, but Dean enjoyed looking at a young Bobby, and his various buddies, and even Karen, his deceased wife. All smiling, all happy. But there were none of the old man and the Winchesters.

Dean thought it was just as well, he didn't know how he would take seeing Bobby and them together in pictures, or seeing pictures him and Sam had taken of Bobby, or vice-versa. But still, it might have been nice...

Suddenly the room got cold. Dean exhaled, watching as the breath turned to fog. The whole room smelled like old books and whiskey. There was a flutter next to him, and Dean looked to see what was missing - what he wanted, and what he hated to see.

There were pictures of him and Sam when they were little, doing God-knows-what in Bobby's living room, smiling and talking about something; there were pictures of the Winchester brothers talking to Bobby, sitting on his lap after dinner and homework; there was one of a ten year-old Dean standing just behind the man, trying to read a Japanese book over his shoulder...

There were others Dean had forgotten about until now, but he couldn't look at them. He couldn't shrug this off as his imagination anymore.

He tried to speak, lost his voice, tried again.

"Bobby...?"

The window, which had frosted over, had writing appear on its surface.

_'I'm here, boy' _

There was a pause, as Dean couldn't speak. But, apparently, someone could.

_'Boy, I want you to stop being all hung up on me 'n' Cas, hell, yeah we're gone, an that's bull shit for you, but that's life and I'll be seein' ya soon anyways'_

_'Ya idjit'_

_'Focus on the here and now before I kick yer sorry ass, I miss ya too, but you need to stop'_

_'I'll always be here ta look after ya, trust me, I ain't going nowhere'_

_'So don't act all sad and depressed for me, now buck up!'_

During his 'lecture,' despite his sadness, Dean couldn't help but smile. Yeah, he was depressed Bobby was dead... but even being a spirit, he still sounded like Bobby. Dean struggled to wipe a tear away before it fell.

"Love you Bobby... I'll try... but it won't ever be the same..."

_'Likewise'_

_'Love you too, and your brother'_

_'Ya idjits...'_

* * *

><p>Ha, not all that bad for a complete spur-of-the-moment, written within a half-an-hour fic, right? The ending didn't quite go as planned, but I kinda like it...<p>

Tell me what you think, s'il vous plaît.


End file.
